Cigarette Companionship
by Wanda Walker
Summary: So Angel picks Collins up in an alley and takes him home. Then what? Well, this.


"I thought you said it was close."

Angel cocked an eyebrow. "It's a block."

"Really?" Collins turned, still leaning heavily on Angel's shoulder, to see the icy street they'd left behind. He _did_ recognize that store with the flickering neon sign. Goddamnit. Somehow the world stretched out when you were limping around and bleeding freely from the nose. He chuckled slightly and wiped a hand along his top lip. "Damn."

"Right up here." Angel stopped beside a store that had its grate pulled down. Beside it was a door with flaking green paint, bearing no number. Angel reached deep into his front pocket and yanked out a ring of keys.

"What are all those for?" Collins asked curiously. After all, the guy had been playing for spare change on a street corner. It wasn't like he had a car or any other possession worth locking up.

Angel winked. "I'd tell you, but then I'd have to—"

"—kill me. Yeah, well, someone tried that already." He wiped at more blood that trickled from his nose. "Goddamn. It's fucking cold out here. And I need a cigarette."

"One second." Angel thrust the key into the lock, played with the knob for a bit, then finally opened the door. It led into a narrow stairwell.

"So is this your place?" Collins asked.

"I move around," Angel answered, wrapping an arm around Collins to keep him from collapsing. "I don't stay in one place too long."

"You have roommates?"

"One." Angel grunted when Collins lost his footing and dragged him down slightly. "Holy hell, hon, you work out?"

"No. I smoke."

Angel chuckled. "'kay, we got stairs here. One at a time, alright?"

"You smoke?"

"Just started, actually. I figured I'm gonna die soon anyway. Might as well choose my deadly vice while I can, right?"

The topic sort of darkened the mood, so Collins stayed silent in honor of it. Besides, it was too hard to small talk and climb the stairs, especially when his ribs hurt like a bitch and he was still lamenting the loss of his coat. It wasn't that the coat was top notch quality, but this was Christmas in New York, and a bastard's scrotum could freeze in a matter of minutes out there.

Angel's place looked pathetic, though it was cleaned up to its best potential. There was heat and running water, and that was all Collins really cared about.

"You get running water panhandling on the corner?" Collins asked.

"Into the bathroom," Angel ordered, pulling Collins toward a door marked "Bathroom" in a cross-stich, much like the ones his grandmother made before she cut him off and died two years later.

Collins was finally allowed to collapse onto the side of a bathtub. Angel vanished, only to return with a frozen bag of corn.

"Put this wherever they kicked you. Nothing's broken?"

"I don't think." Collins winced at the temperature of the bag. "As if I'm not cold enough."

Angel was digging int a rusty mirror cabinet now. He must have dropped his pickle drum in the living room, because Collins couldn't see it. Only the drumsticks in his back pocket.

Collins's eyes roamed the bathroom a bit. It was your basic New York bathroom—covered in water stains, fungus, and broken porcelain. The top of the toilet was missing, and the hot handle on the faucet was missing. However, there was one hint of cheer in the room. The rug was a bright red, and Ho Ho Ho was woven into the center, right above a picture of Santa Claus in his sleigh.

"So—"

Collins was cut off because Angel twisted around, a wet rag at ready. He bent over and wiped the blood off of Collins's top lip.

"Tilt your head back," he ordered. Collins did so. Angel handed him some rolled up toilet paper.

"Stick it up your left nostril."

"Seriously?"

Angel just raised his eyebrows.

Collins shrugged. "Yes, marm." He shoved it, and he shoved it good.

"You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?" Collins asked him. "I'd provide my own, but I was just mugged."

"In my room. Come on. I don't like to stay in this bathroom any longer than I have to."

Collins groaned and stood, favoring the leg he had tripped on as he'd run from his attackers. They crossed the living room and the kitchen connected to it and through a door decorated with Christmas lights.

"You're really into Christmas, eh?"

"It holds good memories for me. Back at my _casa_, we'd hold shindigs like you wouldn't believe."

Collins wanted to ask why he wasn't back at his _casa_ if it was so wonderful, but one thing you didn't ask a panhandling New Yorker was why he stayed here. Usually the answer was the same: _I have to_. New York hated you, spit on you, threw mud in your face, but she also loved you, coddled you, and got you drunk when you needed her the most. Collins hadn't always lived here. He'd been loved by another town once upon a time.

Of course, that was until the disease. After that, New York was transformed into a sancutary, the only place where he could hope to be accepted. And get a job. Right. He worked at NYU. He almost laughed. He worked at NYU, a haven for the intellectual and truly brilliant, and he was being mugged in a dirty alley in Alphabet City.

No wonder his mother told him he was trash.

Collins looked around the bedroom. It was by far the best. Posters covered the grimy walls, mostly of bands and plays he'd never heard of, probably because half of them were Hispanic. There were a few he recognized though.

There was a bed covered in a flowered comforter, a matching lamp, a stuffed rabbit lying across a pillow, and a big white dresser. Scattered across the dresser was a variety of face powders, lipstick, eyeliners, and other tools. On the corner sat a styrofoam head, from which hung a black wig that reminded him of flappers.

Angel caught him staring at the wig but didn't say anything. He waited instead for Collins to remark on it.

But Collins didn't. "Cigarettes?"

"Here." Angel tossed him a pack, and he caught it deftly. He pulled one from the pack, and before he could ask for a light, Angel was already taking care of it. Collins was impressed by his dexterous handling of the lighter and his response time.

Collins took a grateful puff.

"Do you live in Alphabet City?" Angel asked.

"Nah. I was just down here visiting friends. Who are probably wondering where the fuck I am."

"Do you want to call them or . . .?"

"Nah. I'll stop in tomorrow and inform them I'm alive."

"They won't worry?"

Collins shrugged. "They'll manage."

"What kind of friends are these?"

"Well, I was roommates with the one, Mark. Him and his girlfriend and some dick named Benny."

"Cold?" Angel remarked after seeing Collins shudder.

"It's the corn." Collins removed it from his ribs. "I think you can take this back now."

Angel took the bag, but he didn't leave the room. He only set it on the dresser. Collins eyes were drawn to the wig again.

"That yours?" He couldn't help it. He had to ask.

Angel nodded. "Yeah."

Collins cleared his throat. "So you do that sort of thing?"

"You got a problem with it?" Angel's tone was soft, but his eyes were fierce. Collins knew he'd defend his lifestyle with fangs and poison. Collins was slightly hurt. Did he look like the sort of person who would condescend a drag queen? Ha!

"Nope." Collins took another drag on his cigarette. "I actually always found it kind of fascinating. You got any pics?"

Angel blinked. "Pics?"

"Yeah. I want to see what you look like."

"I have pics, but I'd rather show you." At this, Angel smirked and raised his thin eyebrows. "Care to see?"

"How long is it gonna take?"

"Oh, as if you have anything else to do. You go out into the living room and nurse that cigarette. This won't take long."

"You're serious?"

"Honey, this face doesn't lie."

Collins shrugged. "Okay then. Impress me."

Angel nodded and gestured Collins out of the room. Collins grabbed a couch by the window and sat there, feeling warmer and less achey as he watched the lights of Alphabet City wink at him. This night wasn't a total loss. How often did one get mugged and saved by a literal _Angel_? And it didn't hurt that the guy wasn't too bad on the eyes.

He shook his head. Attractive men were what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. This wasn't the time to follow his balls. Not when they were still hurting a bit from his struggle.

Collins had finished his cigarette by the time Angel emerged.

Collins had been expecting some thick, sparkly make-up and some leather dress that made him look like the over-the-hill drag queens that sang at the clubs on their nights off. You know, the sort that had no class but that you had to adore anyway because they were so fucking _real_. They weren't ashamed of their unconventional hobbies, and damn, could they rock the craziest wigs.

Angel wasn't like that, though. He wasn't the laugable sort of transvestite. His make-up was minimal, mostly just a little eyeliner, lipstick, and mascara. Collins wasn't sure if it was because of time restraints or if he was that conservative all the time. The wig could have been real hair as well. It was a simple black, cut just below the ears, with bangs that covered his forehead. And yes, the dress was a bit eccentric, but it complimented him well. And it had the Christmas theme he loved so much. The dress had white faux fur at the collar and crushed red velvet to make the body. Beneath he wore a simple white turtleneck and beneath the skirt were zebra-striped tights. On anyone else, it would have looked tacky. On Angel, they looked appropriate. And the ensemble was completed with shiny knee-high boots that had the most insane heels Collins had seen in a long time. But he walked on them with little to no effort, which meant he'd had quite a lot of practice.

"So." Angel sank onto the arm chair beside the couch, crossing his legs coyly. "What do you think?"

"You look—look great." Collins wasn't one to get tongue-tied, but he felt a sudden heat crawl up his neck. Damn it. He'd promised himself. No more vulnerabilities, no more flings. It was going to be strictly school and friends from now on, with maybe a beer here or there. He'd condemned himself to death with his indiscretions. As his mother would say, it was God's way of telling him he'd fucked up. God, had he ever fucked up.

And he was doing it again.

"Great. You have quite a way with words." Angel tilted his head and smiled. Angel had a terrific, easy smile, one that didn't come natural to most New Yorkers.

"Awesome," Collins attempted.

"Awesome," Angel repeated, then laughed. It was loud and clear, a laugh that knew no restraint. Collins liked it. "I'm flattered to tears."

"You're used to more than that, I guess?"

"Just that creepers on the subway manage more than that." Angel chuckled and plucked at the white fur on his Christmas dress. "Not that I think I deserve it. Or that I don't. I don't know."

"Fantastic. _Muy bonita_, as you people say, right?"

"My 'people'?" Angel laughed again. "Oh, Collins, you have no social finesse."

"I'm gauche."

"Yeah, that's the word. What did you say you do again?"

"I teach philosophy at NYU."

Angel nodded, though he didn't look terribly impressed. "A smart guy, then."

"A nerd."

"Nah, I don't believe that. You're not nerdy at all."

"Get me on computers and math, baby, and I'll leave you in a cloud of dust."

"This coming from a man who wears a yellow vest with red and blue flannel." He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Then again, you _are_ a teacher. Fashion sense doesn't come with the contract."

"Nothin' wrong with my vest . . ." Collins shook my head. "So what do you do? Panhandle?"

"I'm a queen of many talents." Angel fluttered his eyelashes. "I play on the street, yeah. But I'm also an assassin."

"Really?" Collins raised his eyebrows. "An assassin."

"Top secret, really. You want a beer?"

"Hey, I want to hear about this assassin stuff you do."

Angel stood and crossed the room to the refrigerator, heels clicking on the wood with a sharp rhythm. He bent to grab two bottles from the refrigerator before returning to the armchair. He handed one to Collins before settling into his explanation. "An assassin you wouldn't want to cross."

"Who exactly do you assasinate?"

"_What_ I assassinate are Akitas."

"Akitas?" Collins thought a moment. "Wait a minute. Isn't that a breed of dog?"

"Exactly."

Collins stared, then burst out laughing.

"You kill _toy dogs_? Are you serious?"

"Don't underestimate me, mister!" Angel waggled a finger. "Not only do I keep my soul, but I make one grand off of one killing."

Collins stopped laughing immediately. "You make _what_?"

"Some neighbor of this Akita's owner paid me one grand to off the annoying dog next door. So I got out my little drums and played them to piss the dog off. That thing got so upset she just up and jumped out a window twenty-three stories up."

Collins stared openly, then shook his head. "No way."

"Way. I got the cash to prove it."

"A dog cannot be that dumb."

"Rich pampered ones are." Angel took a chug from his beer. "Either way, the damn thing is dead. Good riddance."

"I sense you don't like dogs much?"

Angel shrugged. "Still have a scar on my leg where a little fucker bit me when I was six. Cats are better."

How amusing. Collins himself was much more of a dog person; he was always flattered when they stumbled over themselves in their excitement to say hello. Cats reminded him too much of New Yorkers: you could strangle a baby in the same room and they'd only blink and go back to their preening.

"You just don't seem like the kind of person to murder dogs."

Angel gave him a lopsided smile. "I'm full of surprises, hon." Then he took a long chug from his beer.

*****

An hour later, they'd made their way through five beers and Collins was on his third cigarette. With the help of alcohol, Angel had moved from his armchair to the couch. At first they'd been sitting next to each other, chatting about this and that, but when the beer sunk deeper into their veins, Collins lounged across the length of the couch with Angel lying across him, his head just under Collins's chin. A comfortable silence had swallowed them as a haze of cigarette smoke had. Angel took another sip from his bottle.

"Drunk on Christmas Eve," Angel chuckled, then hiccuped. "So I have a question."

"Yeah?"

"Why do you go by Collins?"

"I don't know. Why does a Hispanic kid go by the name of Angel Durmott Schunard?"

Angel snorted loudly. "My dad wasn't Hispanic. As for Durmott, I gave myself that name."

"Why?"

"Sounded classier."

"Sounds kind of stuffy to me."

"Collins." Angel seemed to mull over the name for a moment. "But why not Tom?"

"I don't know. Too many guys named Tom. And friends always preferred Collins for some reason. I think it started with my fifth grade math teacher. I don't think he ever called me Tom in his life. It was always 'Mr. Collins'. So it stuck."

"Hmm."

"Is Angel your real name?"

"Yah."

"Hmm."

"First born." Angel raised a hand. "My mother thought she was sterile. Then she had me. Hence the name Angel."

"Ah."

More silence. Angel twisted his raised hand in a questioning gesture. Collins passed him the cigarette and let him suck on it. When Angel passed it back, Collins noticed the lipstick mark on the paper. When he brought it to his lips, he realized the lipstick tasted like candy.

That was a pleasant discovery.

"Shit," Angel muttered.

"What?"

"Life support." He laughed. "Forgot all about it."

"Will they miss you? It _is_ Christmas Eve, after all. Don't people have better places to be?"

He snorted. "Well, I didn't think I would. My roommate went home for Christmas. Not sure if he's coming back. He doesn't like me much."

"Is it the drag thing?"

"Nah. He doesn't like the fact I'm diseased."

"Oh." Collins thought of the blood-soaked toilet paper he'd removed from his nostrils. To think that that paper carried one of the deadliest plagues to sweep the nation in decades. He wondered if the trash can where he tossed them was a safe depository. Collins didn't like to think of himself as a walking infection, but he technically was.

"As if I'm gonna fuck him in his sleep or something."

"He's probably more worried about blood."

"Yeah, okay. Since I bleed so often." Collins couldn't see his face, but he was sure Angel rolled his eyes. "He's never said anything, of course. But I can tell. He's afraid of me. That's why I go to life support. I just want to fucking _talk_ about it, you know? I don't want pitying looks or hushed whispers, as if saying _AIDS _is gonna make me cry or something." Angel held up a hand, and Collins gave him the cigarette. He took an irritated puff. "Gets to the point I can't even make friends who _don't_ have it because they treat me like a special case or something. They never ask me about it, never bring it up. It's taboo, and I hate that."

"I got friends who don't have it. Mark and Maureen. But they're pretty cool about it. Don't seem scared of it."

"Good. Good for them."

"My friend Roger has it, but he doesn't like to talk about it."

"He gay?"

"Nah. Ex-druggie."

"Ah. Ex? Really? Even though he knows he's gonna die?"

"He's one of those guys who feels a deeper purpose in life. I can kind of see what he means. You go through your whole life fucking up, and then you're on your death bed and when you look back, you see nothing but failure and disappointments. And so you die, but you don't die with a smille. He probably wants to know that he's done something right. So I support him. He's been through some rough times. His girlfriend died already."

"He give it to her?"

Collins shrugged. "Think she gave it to him, actually. Needles."

"Oh."

There was another silence. Angel handed back the cigarette.

"All these people been saying it's God's punishing us," Angel murmured. "The gays and the druggies. That's why I don't believe in God anymore. Because I used to hate myself when I believed in Him. Thought I could control my thoughts, my desires, my actions. Made myself miserable. So now that I'm happy, God supposedly slaps me with this disease I can't escape? If God exsists, he's a sick bastard. And I don't want to believe in sick bastard deities." He turned slightly. "You believe in God?"

"I'm teach college. 'Course I don't."

"Hmm."

"My mother always did. I just never got into it. I have trust issues. I don't like trusting invisible beings I've never met."

Angel snickered. "Yeah, that might be it too." He blew a slow plume of smoke. "Anyway, so. As long as I missed life support, might as well talk about issues. It's midnight, I'm drunk, and smoking enough cigarettes to kill off a small animal. So I'm gonna tell you I was infected about eight years ago, when I was sixteen. Course I didn't know it then. And hell, I was only tested about three years ago." He took another drag on the cigarette. "Scared the shit out of me."

"Yeah. Me too."

"How long have you had it?"

It was a relief to Collins to just talk about it. He didn't discuss it with others, even Roger, because it always felt like such a sensitive topic. No one wanted to ask when or where or how because they felt that Collins wouldn't want to tell. Well, he _didn't_, really, but he knew he'd have to someday, and when Angel was brave enough to discuss it so openly, Collins didn't want to look like a coward in comparison.

"'Bout two years."

"Ah. It's still young then."

Collins just snorted and shook his head. "When I got the results, I think I cried like a little kid for two weeks." He stole his cigarette back from Angel. "God, what a pussy."

"It's understandable. It's kind of like meeting Death on your door and signing your own execution orders."

"Is it ridiculous to put hope in the scientific community? To hope that they'll come up with some miracle drug to stop it?"

"Not ridiculous, no." Angel shrugged. "But for me, it's too late. They're not going to make any leaps or bounds so soon."

"You got plenty of time."

"You don't know that. Some die in six years. Others, twenty. You don't know. That's the problem. I wish it would give me a date. Just say 'hey, hon, this is when you're gonna go'. Then I could schedule my life around the date. Go sky diving. Join the Peace Corps. Tie up any loose ends with my family. Then when the day came I could just lie back and die smiling. But instead I gotta wring my hands and worry. Could it be tomorrow? How can I know for sure. So instead of doing all these incredible, noble things, I just panhandle and kill dogs for money, because I don't know anything. I just know that I'm still alive."

Collins nodded. He was more comfortable now than he'd ever been. It had been awkward talking about it with his doctor. The doctor had looked sympathetic, but behind the cold blue eyes there was the '_You deserved this, faggot boy.'_ When he talked about it with his mother, there was the hopelessness, despair, and anger. She had bawled and even screamed a little: _How could you be so careless_? _What were you thinking_? And when he spoke about it with Mark the athers, there was that veil separating them. Mark and Maureen were great, and they tried, but they'd never know what it was like. They weren't doomed. They'd grow old and have grandchildren. As for Roger, Roger didn't talk about himself much these days. He didn't want to talk about his past addictions or his disease. He just played his guitar and sunk deeper into depression.

Collins was glad that Angel wasn't depressed. Sad, maybe, but he could still manage a genuine smile. Collins liked that. He appreciated that. He _needed_ that.

"I always thought it was fate's sense of irony. Here I am, this sixteen-year-old boy, so desperate to please my friends and family but so conflicted inside about my identity. When I was little I'd wear my mother's shoes and my parents just laughed, because it was something little boys did. But when I got older, I still wanted to. And I knew if I did, it wouldn't be funny anymore. It was a roller coaster ride. I went on one date with a girl. One, hon. One little date, and I knew. Some guys get married and have children before they finally admit it to themselves. Well, it took my one date. I didn't like anything on her body but her dress." He laughed lightly. "Her dress. That's what I wanted."

Collins couldn't help it. He touched Angel's wig. It felt soft and shiny, and even though he knew it wasn't real hair, he stroked it anyway. It felt nice. He hadn't done this in some time. He'd been so racked with guilt and regret that he hadn't opened his doors to another person in a long time. He wondered what was so different about Angel. There were probably a bunch of reasons. He'd patched him up, a random stranger on the street, dressed up just for him, and was now gushing on about really personal issues. It felt good to be trusted and treated with such compassion. That was probably it. Boston, New York . . . they were all the same, unfeeling cities. The people you met were shells who gave you limp handshakes and fake smiles. You learned to be a loner because no one wanted in your life.

"You think that's weird?" Angel asked. "I mean, how long did it take you to realize it?"

He wasn't saying _gay_, and Collins wasn't sure if that was because he didn't like the word or if he was worried Collins wouldn't.

"I'm not the kind of guy who likes to lie to himself. Like I said, I'm not religious." He chuckled and sucked on his cigarette. "College."

Angel laughed. "That's not much of a shocker."

"Yeah, I wasn't against experimentation. I tried a lot of shit in college. I've given up all of it except my smoking." Collins scratched his head through his beanie.

"Even men?"

"Not really."

"Hmm. Well, anyway, I was sixteen and pretty positive of my sexuality. So I just got a fake ID and went to a gay club. Hated it. Which is really ironic, because those places were the best way to pick up AIDS, and even avoiding them I managed it anyway."

"And then what?"

"My cousin had a couple friends I got along with pretty well. I started hanging out with them more, because they were—well, they were different than my family. My family was big and loving of course, but they had a strict sense of religion and morals which could not be corrupted. These new friends of mine were different. They swore with abandon, used 'Jesus Fucking Christ' liberally, smoked pot, believed in free love, and, on top of it all, accepted everyone. They hung with white people and black people and Chinese people, and they didn't really care what or who you were. They liked you if you could weave a good joke and hawk a lugie further than a foot. They amazed me. We'd stay up until two in the morning talking about the meaning of life, about mathematics and the universe, about art and literature and . . . well, it was just heaven on Earth for me. Once I went out with them wearing make-up, and they _complimented_ me. Would you believe it? I was so ecstatic. I started getting more eccentric, wearing dresses and kissing their cheeks. They started calling me 'she' and they all hugged me like they would a girl, you know? I felt so accepted, and a few times I actually cried, I was so happy.

"As you would expect, they had lots of friends in strange places, and soon they were telling me they could help me meet people, other people like me. Even though they were these guys in leather jackets, smoking pot, they talked about hooking me up with some cute college guy as if it were totally natural. So yeah, they introduced me to this guy named Antonio, and we hit it off like that." Angel snapped his fingers. "He was older and more experienced, so I was in total awe. He called me 'darling' and kissed me in public, and it felt so _good_ that I totally gave myself up to the fantasy.

"Of course, I knew he experimented with drugs a little, and that he went to an occasional shady party, but since he was usually with me _not_ doing those things, I just assumed it wasn't that bad. He never invited me, so I figured he was only keeping me out of trouble. Later I found out he was having these drug-induced orgies." Angel snorted and shook his head. "And so yeah, I got AIDS from him, the bastard."

"Where is he now?"

Angel took the cigarette Collins offered. "He's dead."

More silence. Then Angel asked: "What about you?"

"I don't like to talk about it."

"Who does?"

Collins sighed, but decided to go ahead. Angel had opened up. He'd look like a jerk if he didn't do the same. "I had a partner named Randy a couple of years ago. We'd been together through most of college and even out of it. He was the one who held my hand when I came out to my mother. So you can imagine that we were very devoted to each other."

Angel moved his head so that it was resting in the crook of Collins's armpit. This way he could see Collins out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, there was a span of about month that we got into this huge fight. I'm still not sure if we broke it off or not, but if we did, it meant we got back together the next month. Anyway, we were going through this really rough patch because he didn't want to tell his parents about us. I'd already sucked it up and told my mother, who, though extremeley disappointed, didn't gut me. I felt like he should do the same. All politics aside, we were simply in a bad spot. So one night I went out and got drunk. I ended up sleeping with someone else. Even to this day, I only really remember his face."

Angel blinked at Collins, waiting patiently. His words were harder to form as he went on, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to finish his tale. His tongue was heavy, and his eyes burned. He'd only told this story to Mark. He in turn had regurgitated it to Roger and Maureen, to save Collins the pain of doing so.

"Well, we got back together. And we both ended up getting sick." He cleared my throat. "I'd gotten it from my one night stand. And Randy got it from me."

Angel stared at Collins a long time before rolling over, his chest pressed against Collins's, his elbows finding purchase on each side of his chest. He picked his head up and looked down at him, forcing Collins to realize just how big and beautiful his eyes really were. There was no condemnation there, no pity. Just an understanding.

"He's not dead. Not yet. But he will be. And it'll be because of me."

Angel tilted his head, then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Collins was drunk, tired, and still hurting from the earlier mugging, which probably explained why he reached up and wrapped his arms around him. He needed someone to hold right now. He'd cut myself open and exposed his deepest and ugliest regret to someone he hadn't known more than five hours. And yet he'd confessed more to him than anyone else. He thought it was the eyes. Or maybe the open, accepting expression on his face. Or maybe something else entirely. Collins wasn't sure. He only knew that holding Angel felt better and it felt right. Angel hugged him back, digging his face into his neck, his hair tickling his chin. Collins could feel the wig shift under his jaw, and Angel reached up to just pull it off. Now his chin rested on the soft black fuzz across Angel's scalp.

"Oh, honey," Angel whispered. "You didn't know."

"I should have told him before I got back together with him. I should have admitted it. We could have made precautions. I just thought—I thought that if I told him, he'd leave me. Stupid me. He _did_ leave me. Once the truth was out, he packed up his bags and left. I don't know where he is or what he's doing. I only know that I'll never talk to him again.

"It's been a year, but it still hurts. And I think I'll die with this guilt. I don't see any way of alleviating it."

Angel picked his head up to kiss Collins's cheek. "Some things never go away. Some guilt isn't meant to be erased. Sometimes we do shitty things, and they stick with us for the rest of our lives."

"Knowing that doesn't make me feel any better."

"Of course it doesn't. I'm not trying to comfort you. I'm just telling you the truth."

"I have this feeling you're not one to lie."

Angel gave him a smile, a smile free of sarcasm or fallacy. "Nah. Takes too much effort. I'm too lazy to lie."

Collins stared at his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his skin, and wondered why exactly this had happened. Why had he been mugged? And why had someone like Angel found him? It was hard not to blame fate. As a true follower of math and science, Collins had always blieved that the world was made up of coincidences. The world had formed because of a coincidence. The _universe_ was the result of a coincidence. There was no higher order, no authority. Yet somehow he'd found just the person he needed, the person to metaphorically slap him across the face and tell him that he couldn't spend the rest of his short life moping over himself. Collins was here. He was alive, if not only for a short time. It was liking being set loose in an amusement park; whether you had an hour or a week, you still rode all the roller coasters you could, and as often as you could. Time didn't matter because goddamnit, you were going to make yourself vomit by hopping on the biggest and fastest ride you could.

_No day but today_, Collins thought, running a thumb along Angel's cheek. He gave Collins a slower smile, a warmer one, and bent down to kiss him on the mouth. He tasted like candy, cigarettes, and alcohol.

Collins's favorite concotion.

************************************

Author's Note: This is the first fanfic I've ever written (I'm strictly an original fiction kind of person) so some of it may seem a little awkward, but I hope you all enjoyed it. ^_^ I tried really hard to keep both of them in character, but who knows. XD If you'd like to read any of my original fiction, go here-- http:// www. fictionpress. com /~wandawalker


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